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I am sitting at a picnic table
reading a difficult book
while my kid is running around by herself
training dragons or faeries or…negotiating the narrow tops of temples.
The table is one of many; all available, all empty.
Only mine is being hit by a cone of warm sunshine
which, in the middle of January, is a precious commodity.
And then: a group of women and their weird dogs;
friends,
hens cackling,
fat, overweight, obese
whatever it’s called nowadays,
spies my table
spies the pool of warmth in which it’s bathing
spies the only person sitting at it; egregiously using it.
The group is loud;
each woman holds a gargantuan white paper bag;
the fast food logo on it: red and aggressive;
it’s the innocent name of a girl.
Each woman looks at me with contempt
or disdain or covetous anger.
I take up prime real estate this Sunday afternoon, it seems.
Reading, no less.
Mis-using, abusing the space intended for lunching.
The group walks by closely,
each woman holds nothing back;
one even snorts.
They are all fat women; grossly obese, horrible skin;
horrible souls.
They look like Steadman carricatures ready to peck me to death.
They settle at a nearby table, in the cold shade of this winter day,
unpack their fast food lunches and from time to time
take care to shoot spear-like glances
as I take in sun and Sartre and one final day of rest.
My kid is out of earshot range
I see her weaving in and out of prickly holly bushes,
and so
a few minutes into the ladies’ lunch, while still reading,
I yell out: FUCK YOU AND YOUR WENDY’S.